


hold on to me (‘cause I’m a little unsteady)

by suzukiblu



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch Era, Blackwatch Genji Shimada, First Meetings, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mission Gone Wrong, Pre-Relationship, Robots Love Cyborgs, Sickfic, Stranded
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-24 03:59:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15622056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suzukiblu/pseuds/suzukiblu
Summary: The mission in Nepal goes very wrong, and Genji wakes up in a small, warm room that smells of incense and oil. He looks up at the stone ceiling for a long moment, then whips out a fistful of shuriken and attacks the other presence in the room. Something impacts the side of his wrist and ruins his throw, and he finds himself face to face with an omnic.“Greetings,” the omnic says, a glowing orb floating back to his side. “I am Zenyatta. You are safe here.”Genji finds that very unlikely.





	hold on to me (‘cause I’m a little unsteady)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Prim_the_Amazing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/gifts).



> Written for Prim_The_Amazing, who wanted Genyatta and hurt/comfort. Somehow I’d never written Zenyatta before, so thanks for fixing that, Prim!

The mission in Nepal goes very wrong, and Genji wakes up in a small, warm room that smells of incense and oil. He looks up at the stone ceiling for a long moment, then whips out a fistful of shuriken and attacks the other presence in the room. Something impacts the side of his wrist and ruins his throw, and he finds himself face to face with an omnic. 

“Greetings,” the omnic says, a glowing orb floating back to his side. “I am Zenyatta. You are safe here.” 

Genji finds that very unlikely. 

“Where the hell am I?” he demands, the words coming out strong and angry despite the fact his head is swimming and his remaining body parts feel like jelly. His _cybernetic_ body parts feel like jelly, even, which is quite an accomplishment considering how little they can feel. 

“This is the Shambali monastery,” Zenyatta says, gesturing gracefully. “You should sit, perhaps. You lost quite a lot of blood, and I am afraid we are not well-suited to care for injured humans here. An oversight to be corrected, certainly.” 

Genji looks down at himself. He’s very pale, and badly bruised. His metal parts are flawless and shining, even the minor scuffs he had before this mission gone. If anything, he looks better than the day he was built. 

It makes him want to throw up, but part of him also wants to laugh. Of course an omnic would fix the machine better than the pathetic remnants of the man. 

“Where did you find me?” he asks. 

“In the snow,” Zenyatta says. “You seemed to have fallen from the path.” 

“Fallen. Yes.” Genji smirks humorlessly behind his mask. “Was I alone?” 

“Should you not have been?” Zenyatta asks. He sounds worried, now. 

“Do not be concerned,” Genji says, and reclaims his shuriken from the floor and his coat from the chair it’s been left folded on. “You will not see me again.” 

.

.

.

The extraction point is abandoned, all clean snow and no sign that anyone was ever there. This is what he gets for going on missions without Reyes. 

Well, it’s not the first time he’s been presumed dead. 

.

.

.

Genji heads down the mountain carefully, following the path and ignoring the cold. He doesn’t usually bother wearing any more clothing than what his armor provides, but he’s grateful for the heavy coat and glove he was issued for this mission. His communicator is useless, too short-range to contact anyone from Overwatch and only meant to keep him in touch with the other agents on the mountain. There are no other agents on the mountain now, of course. He has a long-range communicator for emergencies, but it was smashed in the fight and is only cracked pieces in his coat pocket. 

Probably why they left without bothering to recover his body, he supposes. The long-range communicator is the one with the GPS that’s supposed to be used for that. McCree would’ve made them search unless something was terribly wrong, though, so either McCree is dead or something is terribly wrong. 

McCree being dead would, admittedly, be something terribly wrong. 

Genji dismisses the thought, because if McCree is dead there’s nothing he can do about it anyway, and no matter what he needs to get off this mountain and contact Blackwatch. It affects nothing he has to do. 

The path leads to a village. Genji isn’t sure if he should follow it through or not. He doesn’t look like the omnic monks in the temple, and he looks even less like the villagers below. He doesn’t expect welcomed, but he doesn’t want to deal with hostility either. He doesn’t go out in public much; the responses are never good. 

He thinks he can probably circle around the village, if he’s willing to climb a bit. There’s some options. 

“Ah,” a familiar voice says, and Genji turns to find Zenyatta on the path behind him, floating serenely in place. Genji scowls. “It seems it was my fate to see you again after all, friend.” 

“I am not your friend,” Genji says. He used to make friends easily. Now he does not make friends at all. 

“Will you walk with me anyway?” Zenyatta asks. “If I was fated to see you again, surely your company will result in something the universe has ordained.” 

“Surely not,” Genji says. “I have places to be.” 

“As do we all, eventually,” Zenyatta says. 

.

.

.

Genji follows Zenyatta into the village not because the universe has ordained something, but because travelling with a local is much simpler than climbing the rocky pass. With luck, Zenyatta’s presence will be enough to make him uninteresting. 

It is, although not in the way Genji had hoped. Zenyatta is stopped a dozen times by people eager to see or speak with him. Several children reach up to embrace him; a few of the smallest ones hang off his floating form and laugh in delight. People of all ages greet or thank him for no apparent reason, and he responds to every single one differently, nothing stock or practiced about his answers at all. 

Genji could keep walking, but more than once he’s just mystified enough to stay and watch. Zenyatta accepts a kiss and a covered basket; a handshake and heartfelt thanks; an embrace and an apology. He takes it all in stride, easily, and Genji vaguely remembers once being able to be that easy with people, albeit in a very different way. 

Zenyatta even keeps him looped in, and doesn’t ignore him in favor of the other locals. No one questions his presence or appearance at all, which is . . . strange. Genji is not used to going out among people without being stared at. Even when he was still a whole man, he usually attracted attention for one reason or another. 

The relief of being out from under that weight is not one he would’ve expected to encounter in a situation like this. 

.

.

.

“Thank you for accompanying me,” Zenyatta says as they reach the edge of the village. Genji feels like he’s been tricked, somehow, but there is no malice or mischief in Zenyatta’s countenance; he sounds as sincere as ever. “I appreciated your company.” 

“As the universe ordained, I imagine,” Genji snorts. 

“Perhaps so,” Zenyatta says. “I _am_ glad to see you well. I worried you might succumb to your injuries.” 

“I have been more injured than this,” Genji says. “ _Far_ more injured than this.” 

“Indeed you have,” Zenyatta says. “But even a small injury can be a source of great pain.” 

“And you have been injured often, then?” Genji asks derisively. Zenyatta hums, a gentle whirring of servos. He is beautifully constructed, Genji can’t help but notice. A far better machine than he would count as. A far better man, even, judging by his interactions with the villagers. 

“Not at all, physically,” Zenyatta says. “I have only seen such troubles in others.” 

“Then you cannot understand,” Genji says. 

“Likely not,” Zenyatta agrees. “Are you in pain?” 

“Always,” Genji says. 

.

.

.

Genji heads the rest of the way down the mountain. It’s a long walk to make alone. But he mostly does things alone these days, outside of missions. 

Unfortunately, Talon operatives do nothing alone. 

.

.

.

“We must stop meeting like this, my friend,” Zenyatta murmurs, passing a hand over Genji’s face. He can’t see the bloodstained snow anymore. He would say something, maybe, but his vocal synthesizer isn’t really in the shape for it. 

Zenyatta lifts him up with cold arms. Genji thinks about stabbing him, but the idea is exhausting. The important part is he killed the agents. Everything else is just . . . details. 

.

.

.

Genji wakes up in a small, warm room that smells of incense and oil. Zenyatta is in the corner, floating. Genji tries to get up, but his head swims _viciously_ and it doesn’t quite work. He ends up falling half off the pallet, and Zenyatta comes over and steadies him. 

“I would not move very much, if I were you,” he says. “You seem to have hit your head rather badly.” 

“I will live,” Genji says, and tries to get up again. His head swims and his legs collapse and he ends up in Zenyatta’s arms again, which his clearly delirious mind notes are strong and secure and surprisingly comfortable for being made of metal and pistons. Sanity prevails, and he manages to collapse back onto the pallet. 

“I hope so,” Zenyatta says, pressing a cool hand to his chest. It feels much better than it should. “Your body temperature is rather elevated.” 

“I have lived through fevers before,” Genji says. Zenyatta’s forehead is lit up with little dots of light. They look lovely on him. 

“Thank you,” Zenyatta says, sounding amused. 

. . . ah, he said that out loud, didn’t he. 

“Perhaps I will not move after all,” Genji says, covering his face in mortification. Let the fever take him, he thinks. Let it take him _now_. 

“Are you hungry?” Zenyatta asks. “There is broth and bread.” 

“I cannot eat that,” Genji says. There is very little he can eat, and he learned the hard way to just stick with the rations Ziegler gives him. 

“What can you eat?” Zenyatta asks. 

“In my coat,” Genji says, and Zenyatta picks it up off the chair and brings it to him. Genji rifles through it and finds two ration pouches, which is not very much but will hopefully see him through until he can go down the mountain again. Going hungry is not so difficult, compared to the rest of the pain he lives in every day. He pries off his mask, then tears one pouch open with his teeth and drinks the flavorless glop inside a little quicker than perhaps he should. He forces himself to leave the other for later. 

“May I?” Zenyatta says, holding out a hand for the empty wrapper. Genji pauses, but gives it to him. What an odd, small thing to do. “Thank you. Is there anything else that you require?” 

“No,” Genji says, not really sure how to take being asked. He feels exhausted just from that little effort, and thinks that he could sleep for days. 

“Very well,” Zenyatta says, and if either of them says anything else, Genji doesn’t remember later. 

.

.

.

He sleeps for a long time. 

.

.

.

A long, long time. 

.

.

.

“Drink,” Zenyatta murmurs in the dim evening light, and Genji is too tired to remember better. He swallows some sweet and cloying mush with a familiar texture, and could almost mistake it for his usual rations. 

“That tastes terrible,” he mutters. He feels hot and sore and weak, and wonders how his rotted body will look if he dies. He wonders how long he will take to rust. 

“My apologies,” Zenyatta says. “I did my best to match your provisions, but I am not much of a cook.” 

“Mm,” Genji says, only understanding about half of that, and sleeps again. 

.

.

.

He would be angry, because he is always angry, but right now he’s just too tired. 

.

.

.

Genji wakes up slowly, feeling heavy and unpleasantly hot. His head and throat both ache--his whole _body_ aches, at least what’s left of it--and stabbing phantom pains chase up and down his missing limbs. He rolls onto his side, biting back a groan, and tries to focus more than a foot in front of his face. It . . . doesn’t work very well. 

Something cold presses against his cheek, a relief against how hot and disgusting he feels, and he leans into it unthinkingly for a moment before realizing what it is and jerking back. Zenyatta looks down at him, hand still outstretched. 

“I am glad to see you awake,” he says. “How do you feel?” 

“Terrible,” Genji rasps. There’s not much point in lying about it, since he can barely move. 

“I am sorry,” Zenyatta says. “We have not been certain how to treat you. The villagers’ usual methods might be troublesome for you.” 

“They might,” Genji says, imagining how badly swallowing who knows what medicines would likely go for the remnants of his guts. Not well, he’d imagine. Who knows what else they do. Do you keep warm or cold for a fever? It’s been so long since he’s been sick, under Ziegler’s meticulous care. He wasn’t ill often before, either--certainly not _this_ ill. 

“Indeed,” Zenyatta agrees. “If your temperature elevates much higher, though, it might perhaps be better to try.” 

“I need to get off the mountain,” Genji says, reaching absently for his broken long-range communicator. He isn’t wearing his coat anymore, though, so it’s not there to be reached. 

“You are in no state to travel, I am afraid,” Zenyatta says. “Certainly in no state to brave a mountain pass.” 

“I must,” Genji says, trying to push himself up. It doesn’t go particularly well, by which he means it doesn’t go at all. Zenyatta watches him patiently, his hands folded together lightly in his lap. 

“Must you?” he asks after Genji has fully realized that no, he is not getting off this pallet anytime soon. “Is the rush so important?” 

“I do not know,” Genji says. The rush isn’t _really_ important, he supposes. Overwatch will take him back no matter how long it takes him to contact them; he’s simply too expensive to waste. Ziegler has invested too much time in him. Any sense of urgency he feels is simply his own feelings. 

He feels it anyway, though. 

“Perhaps then you are worried about nothing,” Zenyatta says. “Or perhaps not. But either way, I am afraid there is nothing that can be done for the moment. Even if you were well, there is a storm coming upon the mountain. You would not be able to beat it down.” 

“A storm,” Genji echoes. There goes any hopes of getting the long-rage communicator repaired. Even if someone here could, calling out would be pointless in the face of a high-altitude winter storm--and that’s assuming the signal would even get through. 

He’s so tired, anyway. He might as well just sleep. 

.

.

.

He sleeps. 

.

.

.

The storm comes down on the mountain. 

.

.

.

Genji wakes up to the sound of viciously raging wind outside, still feeling like hell and cold down to his _bones_ , and can’t stop shaking. He’s buried in blankets, but he can’t feel any warmth. He puts a weak, fumbling hand over his face, and it feels clammy and hot and _wrong_ , everything feels _wrong_ , he feels-- 

A cold hand presses a cold cloth against his cheek, and he breathes out raggedly and opens his eyes. Zenyatta is leaning over him, his metal body illuminated in the dim light. He looks like something Genji forgets how to feel. 

“Can you eat?” Zenyatta asks. 

“I doubt it,” Genji says. He doesn’t feel hungry at all. Just the idea of food is enough to make him nauseous. 

“You should try,” Zenyatta says. “You have not eaten in some time.” 

“I cannot eat your food,” Genji says. Zenyatta holds out a bowl to him. 

“I replicated the contents of your pouch as accurately as I was able with our processing equipment,” he says. “You kept it down before, if you do not remember.” 

“I do not,” Genji says, sitting up gingerly and very carefully taking the bowl with his shaking hands. Its contents smell sweet and strange, but the consistency and color are very close to the protein paste Ziegler gives him. It might be alright to eat. 

“You are trembling,” Zenyatta observes. 

“I am ill,” Genji says, then takes a hesitant sip of the bowl’s contents. He doesn’t immediately throw up, so that’s a start. “It is normal.” 

“I am glad to hear that,” Zenyatta says. “It concerned me.” 

“It should not,” Genji says, taking another sip. It’s warm, which is some small comfort. He does not indulge in small comforts, but someone else brought it to him, so . . . 

Never mind. 

He drinks the rest of the bowl. Zenyatta watches him, and takes it when he’s done. Genji feels exhausted, like he could collapse all over again. The room feels as small as a thimble; as cold as a blade. 

“Why are you doing this?” he asks. Zenyatta inclines his head, the glowing dots on his face pulsing briefly with a brighter light. 

“It needed done,” he says. 

“That is not a reason,” Genji says. 

“It is reason enough for me,” Zenyatta replies with an easy shrug. 

“It is not a _reason_!” Genji snaps again. It comes out raspy, and hurts his throat. Zenyatta is unphased. 

“You came into my path, and you were in need of something I could provide,” he says. “I do not need more reason than that.” 

.

.

.

He can still hear the storm winds raging. 

.

.

.

The storm abates, eventually, but it’s still several days before Genji starts to get his strength back. Zenyatta sits with him sometimes and tells him stories; as if he thinks Genji has never sat alone and healed before, as if he thinks he needs some way to pass the time. Each one is more foolish than the last. 

“What we do to the universe, we do to ourselves, my friend,” Zenyatta says. Genji laughs at him, sharp and harsh. What he does to the universe is what it did to him _first_. 

And he doesn’t have friends. 

.

.

.

He’s up all night coughing and weak and _miserable_. Zenyatta sits beside him no matter what cruel things he says. 

Only later does he realize he never actually told the other to leave. 

.

.

.

He doesn’t know how he feels. 

.

.

.

He doesn’t . . . 

.

.

.

Zenyatta’s cool metal hand touches Genji’s face, and it takes more strength than it should not to lean into the contact. 

“Your fever seems to have broken at last,” he says. “How do you feel?” 

“Dreadful,” Genji says, because he does. His throat is rough and his skin is covered in dried sweat and his mouth tastes like death. But his limbs don’t feel weak, at least not like before, and he manages to sit up without a struggle. Zenyatta offers him a bowl of whatever strange mixture he concocted in pursuit of Ziegler’s formula, and Genji gulps it down. It’s still much too sweet, but it soothes his throat a little, at least. He swipes a finger through the bowl to get the last of it, then sucks it clean. 

“At least your appetite appears to have returned,” Zenyatta says, sounding pleased. 

“It has,” Genji says, licking his lips and watching the other guardedly. It’s a bit late to be guarded, with how long he’s been at Zenyatta’s mercy, but he feels it all the same. “Where did you say this was?” 

“The Shambali monastery,” Zenyatta replies. “Or, more precisely, my room.” 

“This is your _room_?” Genji had assumed it was some kind of guest quarters. He’s not sure he would’ve even assumed Zenyatta had a room at all, if he’d been asked. 

“Indeed,” Zenyatta says. “The pallet and chair, admittedly, are new additions. I do not normally require much in the way of furniture.” 

“That was unnecessary,” Genji says, for the thousandth time not sure how he feels about something related to Zenyatta. 

“Perhaps,” Zenyatta says. “You seem stronger.” 

“I am,” Genji says, pushing to his feet. He feels a brief woozy rush, but locks his knees and manages to stay upright. “I must go down the mountain.” 

“I suppose you must,” Zenyatta says. “May I walk with you, my friend?” 

“I do not have friends,” Genji says as he pulls on his coat and glove and replaces his mask. 

He forgets to just say “no”, though, and Zenyatta follows him. 

.

.

.

Zenyatta does not walk, of course, but he keeps perfect pace with Genji. Genji is still too tired to protest. Zenyatta accompanies him back down the mountain path, through the heavy drifts of snow--or over, rather--and down towards the village. The cold bothers Genji more than it should. Most things bother him, though; he could handle worse. 

He slips. Zenyatta catches his arm. 

What he gets for not requisitioning boots, he thinks. 

“Are you alright?” Zenyatta asks in concern. 

“Fine,” Genji says, quickly reclaiming his arm. “I am fine.” 

“Good,” Zenyatta says like it matters. 

.

.

.

The snow is deep between the monastery and the village, presumably because snow does not particularly matter to omnics, or perhaps because monks have loftier concerns. The path clears more as they approach the village, where the people who actually have to get around on their own two feet live. Genji shakes ice out of his joints and supposes he should be grateful, though he does not remember how being grateful feels. If he couldn’t remember it for Zenyatta, then he highly doubts he will for strangers. 

Zenyatta is a stranger too, he reminds himself. One of the strangest he’s ever met. 

He doesn’t feel like a stranger, but Genji doesn’t know what he _does_ feel like. There are a lot of things this mountain makes him feel without understanding, it seems. 

Perhaps that is just Zenyatta. 

“Perhaps we might find you a fire to warm yourself by before we carry on,” Zenyatta suggests. “The village always has several burning.” 

“Why?” Genji asks him. 

“You are still recovering,” Zenyatta says. “If you push yourself too badly you may fall ill again.” 

“As long as I am off this mountain,” Genji says. He doesn’t think he could stand waking up in Zenyatta’s room one more time. He doesn’t think he could stand _seeing_ him again, after this. There has been too much confusion and weakness between them. 

“If you were to die here, you would never leave this mountain,” Zenyatta says mildly. Genji sighs in frustration, then turns on him and gestures pointedly at his face. 

“ _Look_ at me,” he says. “Who would welcome a thing like me to their fire?” 

“I do not know,” Zenyatta replies. “Perhaps we should ask.” Genji laughs at him and turns away, zipping the neck of his coat higher. 

“You say that like it is easy,” he says. “Like it is some simple thing.” 

“It is quite simple,” Zenyatta says as they finally step into the village proper. “Although that is not the same as easy, I know. Would you permit me to try all the same?” 

Genji is _certain_ he means to say no. He is less certain of how he winds up sitting next to a cookfire with Zenyatta, watching the other patiently stir a stew of some kind. Zenyatta seems to have a certain effect of making him do things without actually _making_ him do _anything_. 

It’s--strange. 

And it makes Genji feel a way he doesn’t recognize. 

.

.

.

At the edge of the village, Genji takes his leave again. Zenyatta is all patience and calm concern. Genji is angry, as always, but still too tired to really feel it. Later, he knows he’ll feel it again, back to the usual simmering fury he always operates at these days; that he will operate at for the rest of his days, he sometimes thinks. Right now, though . . . right now he’s just too many other things. 

“I wish you safe passage in your travels,” Zenyatta says. 

“It cannot go any more poorly than last time,” Genji says, briefly wry. Zenyatta laughs. The sound makes Genji . . . _feel_ something. 

“Perhaps not,” Zenyatta says. 

“Do not be concerned,” Genji says, not for the first time. “You will not see me again.” 

This time, though, Zenyatta has an answer. 

“That would be quite a shame,” he says, and Genji stills in the process of turning away. It sounds like _truth_ , like it’s something Zenyatta actually believes. He wants to say something back, but nothing is coming to him. Nothing cruel, nothing kind--nothing at all. 

Zenyatta does not seem to expect anything, though, and only reaches out to lay a hand on his shoulder. He squeezes, lightly, and Genji feels feverish and dizzy all over again for no good reason. 

“Go safely, my friend,” Zenyatta says. 

“I do not have friends,” Genji says, abrupt and pointless. He should be leaving. This is only dragging the process out. Zenyatta tilts his head, an aura of curiosity rising in him. 

“Then perhaps we are meant to be something else,” he says. 

Genji stares at him, lost for words. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what he feels. He doesn’t even know what he _should_ feel. 

“If you are ever in need of a safe haven, know that this place will be one for you for as long as I am here,” Zenyatta says, squeezing his shoulder once more before dropping his hand and folding both gracefully in his lap. 

“And how long will you be here?” Genji asks, abrupt and pointless again, just as much a dragging out as before. 

“As long as it takes, I imagine,” Zenyatta says. 

“You cannot make such a promise,” Genji says. 

“Perhaps,” Zenyatta says. “But perhaps the universe has other plans for you and I.” 

“That we should be something else,” Genji echoes. He might laugh, normally. Right now he can’t. 

“Surely that we should be _something_ ,” Zenyatta says. “Though I must admit, that may only be my own hope speaking.” 

“You will not see me again,” Genji repeats, shaking his head. 

“I would like to,” Zenyatta says, honest and easy, and Genji doesn’t know what he’s feeling, except that whatever it is is strange and painful and . . . and . . . 

“You would not,” he says stiffly. 

“I am sorry you think so,” Zenyatta says, inclining his head. “Goodbye, my something else. I hope the Iris sees fit for us to meet again.” 

Genji is certain it will not. 

.

.

.

Genji has been wrong before, of course. 

This time, at least, he gets to be grateful for it.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr!](http://suzukiblu.tumblr.com/)


End file.
